Authors note: this is Volume 1 "This is not a short ride. 136,000+ words. You've been warned."
The screen fades in to the soaring spires of Beacon Academy, resting proudly on a cliff's edge, cloaked in early morning mist.
A deep, somber voice begins:
"Legends. Stories scattered through time. Mankind has grown quite fond of recounting the exploits of heroes and villains, forgetting so easily that we are remnants—byproducts—of a forgotten past..."
Images flicker to life: ancient murals of a man born from dust, standing defiant against monstrous creatures. Warriors surround him, blades drawn. Chaos. Fear. The ever-looming presence of darkness.
"Man, born from dust, was strong, wise, and resourceful. But he was born into an unforgiving world. An inevitable darkness—creatures of destruction known as the Grimm—set their sights on man and all he had built."
More images follow: monsters clawing at civilization, black shadows against dim torchlight. Then—light.
A single glowing crystal rises from the abyss, bathing the world in color.
"However, even the smallest spark of hope can ignite change. In time, man's passion and ingenuity unearthed a new power: Dust."
Lightning bolts arc from outstretched hands. Guns blaze. Swords shine in the light of a rekindled flame. Cities rise, fortified by unity and courage.
"With Dust in hand, mankind pushed back the darkness, and from their struggle emerged strength, civilization, and most importantly—life."
A beautiful panorama of Remnant unfolds, the moon fractured above a sprawling cityscape. The narration turns grim once again.
"But even the brightest lights will one day flicker and die. And when they are gone, darkness—"
—SCRATCH!
The narration cuts off abruptly.
A voice, far less dramatic, grumbles into the microphone.
"Okay—yeah, no. Let's stop right there."
The screen glitches slightly. The previously solemn atmosphere evaporates like fog under sunlight.
"Because we are not doing that intro. Not today. Not the ol' Dust-till-Dawn-to-Torchwick-to-Ruby-flying-through-a-window-again routine. Seriously, how many times do we need to replay that scene like it's gospel?"
The voice sharpens, heated with unfiltered commentary.
"You know the one—OP or not-OP male reader, just so happens to show up at the perfect time, then boom, Ruby's flipping through the air, Torchwick's making his dramatic exit, and suddenly we're back at Beacon like nothing ever happened. Come on, the world of Remnant is big. There's so much more to explore and made shit up."
A pause.
"And don't even get me started on the avalanche of Jaune-centric fanfics. There are so many Jaunes I've lost count. Some good ones, sure. But it's always him. Or Weiss. Or some Isekai guy stuck in someone's body who read the wiki and now wants to 'fix everything'."
Another pause. A sheepish cough.
"Ahem. Sorry. Got carried away."
The voice steadies, this time with purpose.
"But this? This is something different. Yes—it is an OC story. Yes, there will be some interactions with Team RWBY, Jaune, the rest. But we're skipping the copy-paste intro. No 'Episode 1' rerun. We're going straight to Beacon."
A bold title splashes across the screen, followed by the faint sound of a cheering crowd (possibly imagined).
"This is a story about an original team—real characters with consequences, backstories, goals, even original villains. Maybe some morally gray ones too. This is Volume One. That's right. Seventeen chapters. One every morning at 7 a.m."
A dramatic pause.
"I may or may not have forgotten to study for my finals just to finish this."
Silence.
Then the voice echoed.
"Anyway—enjoy the ride. Welcome to My random story."
The transport station buzzed with life, nestled between the gleaming towers of Vale's upper district. A wide, open-air platform stretched beneath the sky, where massive airships loomed like whales at dock, ready to carry passengers to far-off destinations.
Dozens of teenagers milled about—some jittery with excitement, others trying to look like they weren't excited. Conversations came and went like waves.
"Did you hear they have actual combat zones on campus?"
"I heard the cafeteria's all-you-can-eat."
"Bro, I'm telling you—if I see a Grimm, I'm punching it. Right in the face."
"Sure you will, big man. Just don't cry when it bites your arm off."
In the midst of all the noise and movement, one figure stood out—not just for her size, but for the way she carried herself.
Calling her a "girl" would've been misleading. The towering, seven-foot woman strode into the station in sturdy boots and simple, rugged casual wear. A single, massive luggage case rolled behind her. Her presence didn't just draw attention—it commanded it.
She stepped through the glass doors, tall and steady, her footsteps echoing faintly on the polished floor. The lobby bustled with movement—students in Beacon uniforms, bags wheeled across tiles, security on patrol—but as she approached the front desk, it was as if the room subconsciously quieted by a notch.
The station attendant looked up, his polite smile faltering for just a second. His fingers paused mid-keystroke.
"Uh—how may I help you, ma'am?"
"Beacon," she said, voice low and firm, each syllable clipped and deliberate. "Got a letter."
She didn't offer it. Not yet.
The attendant blinked twice, then quickly straightened. "Ah! A student—of course. Forgive me, I just—well—you've got the look of a veteran Huntress. Ma'am."
She tilted her head slightly. Not quite a nod. Not quite amusement. Just... acknowledgment. "It's fine. I get that a lot."
Her gloved hand reached into her coat and slid two crisp documents across the counter—her ID and a folded letter bearing Beacon's seal. Neat. Orderly. No wasted motion.
"Right," the attendant said, forcing a chuckle as he clicked through his terminal. "Well, you're in luck. Beacon-bound students ride free—Headmaster's orders. A little gift for this year's batch."
"Appreciated."
Her voice remained level—polite, but not warm. A soldier's courtesy.
A small mechanical whir followed as the ticket printed out. The man handed it over with her documents, still slightly on edge beneath her silent stare.
"All set. Gate B10. Shouldn't be long now—feel free to wait in the lounge."
She picked up the papers and turned without another word.
The lounge was alive with noise. Students compared gear, swapped stories, some already laughing like old friends. She moved past them like a shadow through light—uninterested, untouched.
In the far corner, she found an empty bench against the wall.
She sat down, spine straight, legs crossing with military precision. Her hand slipped into her coat once more and drew out a folded photo. Its edges were frayed, corners dulled by time. She held it with care—two fingers on each side, steady and reverent.
The image was turned inward, unseen by others.
Her expression didn't change. But her grip tightened slightly. Just slightly.
Around her, the world buzzed in anticipation.
She simply waited. Silent. Still.
A voice crackled through the intercom: ["Airship to Beacon Academy arriving in ten minutes. Passengers, please make your way to boarding gate B10."]
She slipped the photo beneath her jacket, stood, and picked up her luggage without a sound. With practiced ease, she moved toward the line of waiting students, joining them just as the airship's hatch hissed open with hydraulic precision.
Teenagers surged forward, energy buzzing with excitement. She moved among them like a shadow—silent, steady, out of place but unshaken.
Inside, the ship was well-furnished. Leather seats, soft lighting, cool air. A few students marveled aloud at the setup.
"Yo, this is way nicer than I thought."
"I call window seat!"
She paid it no mind, she took a seat near the back. One hand on her bag, the other on the armrest. Her eyes went to the window.
The engines rumbled. The platform dropped away. The city fell beneath them—towers, streets, lights—all shrinking as the sky pulled them higher.
["Airship departing for Beacon Academy. Enjoy the ride."]
She didn't move. Just watched.
Around her, students shifted and settled in. Bags thumped into overhead racks. Scrolls lit up. Someone laughed. A few slept.
She stayed still.
Crossed one leg over the other. Gloved hand rose to her jaw. The clouds outside drifted by, slow and pale.
She watched them without blinking.
Her gaze shifted when she heard a sharp burst of laughter. Not far from her seat, two girls caught her eye. One was practically glowing with enthusiasm, all bright gestures and wide grins. The other looked younger, smaller, half-drowned in a red cloak, clearly uncomfortable under the spotlight.
"I can't believe my baby sister is going to Beacon with me!" the blonde said, voice full of unrestrained joy. She threw her arms around the hooded girl with such force it knocked the younger slightly off balance.
"Please stop," came the muffled response, her face buried in the blonde's shoulder. Her tone held the long-suffering edge of someone used to this.
The taller one only laughed louder. "But I'm so proud of you!"
The girl pushed her away with mild embarrassment. "Really, Sis, it was nothing."
"Nothing?" Her hands flew up in disbelief. "Are you kidding? Everyone at Beacon is going to think you're the bee's knees."
"I don't want to be the bee's knees," the younger replied quickly, cheeks puffing. "I don't want to be any kind of knees. I just want to be a normal girl with normal knees."
The orange-haired woman blinked once at that. Strange metaphor, she thought.
"What's with you?" the older asked, softening her tone a little. "Aren't you excited?"
"Of course I'm excited, I just..." The girl's shoulders hunched. Her eyes fell to her lap, voice quieter now. "I got moved ahead two years. I don't want people thinking I'm some kind of... special."
A beat passed. The sister's teasing expression faltered into something softer, more sincere. She moved closer and wrapped an arm around her again, more gently this time.
"But you are special."
Across the cabin, the orange-haired woman let out a small huff—not mocking, just distant. Her gaze drifted away from the pair, drawn to the glowing display screens mounted throughout the interior.
One screen flickered, catching her attention. A stern-looking news anchor appeared, flanked by static graphics.
["The robbery was led by nefarious criminal Roman Torchwick, who continues to evade authorities,"] the anchor intoned, his voice as smooth as it was disinterested. A mugshot of a pale man with a crooked smirk and a tilted bowler hat took over the screen.
["If you have any information on his whereabouts, please contact the Vale Police Department. Back to you, Lisa."]
The view shifted again, now showing a cluster of faunus demonstrators waving signs that read WE ARE NOT ANIMALS!—a chorus of silent protest frozen mid-motion. The scene darkened, replaced by a stark red emblem: a snarling wolf's head behind three slashing claw marks.
The female anchor's voice replaced the previous one. ["Thank you, Cyril. In other news, this Saturday's Faunus Civil Rights protest turned dark when members of the White Fang disrupted the ceremony..."]
The broadcast crackled, flickered once, then collapsed into a swirl of golden light. From it emerged the holographic form of a tall, sharply dressed woman with short blonde hair and square-rimmed glasses. She stood with crisp posture, arms folded behind her back, exuding control even in digital form.
["Hello, and welcome to Beacon,"] she announced with a smooth, commanding voice.
The bubbly blonde from earlier leaned in with a squint, her hand shading her eyes. "Who's that?"
As if in answer, the hologram continued without pause, ["My name is Glynda Goodwitch."]
"Oh," the blonde replied.
["You are among a privileged few who have received the honor of being selected to attend this prestigious academy,"] Glynda continued, her voice ringing with formality. ["Our world is experiencing an incredible time of peace, and as future Huntsmen and Huntresses, it is your duty to uphold it. You have demonstrated the courage needed for such a task, and now it is our turn to provide you with the knowledge and training to protect our world."]
The projection gave a final look, then dissolved into particles of light, fading into nothing.
The smaller girl in the red hood pressed her hands and face to the glass wall of the airship. Her breath fogged the surface. "Wow! You can see Signal from here!"
The blonde stepped up beside her, her expression softening as she looked down at the distant coastline and glimmering buildings. "Beacon's our home now."
The tall woman with orange hair didn't move. She remained reclined in her seat, arms loosely crossed, eyes reflecting the scattered sunlight off the clouds. If she heard them, she gave no sign. Her mind seemed far away.
Then came a groan.
A nearby boy—a bit lanky, with messy hair and an ill-fitting set of armor plates—rose from his seat in a hurry. He hunched forward, clutching his stomach, and shuffled stiffly toward the rear of the airship like a soldier bracing against a battle.
She blinked and tilted her head slightly. "There's a restroom back there," she said, flatly but not unkind.
"Hmmph!" he grunted, eyes wide with urgency. He managed a nod, or something close to it, before hurrying on.
She tracked him for a moment, then sighed under her breath. "Strange guy..."
The sound of commotion bubbled up again from the area he'd just vacated.
"Ew! You have puke on your shoe!"
"Oh no—gross, gross, gross, gross, gross, gross, gross!"
"Get away from me! Get away from me! Get away from me!"
The orange-haired woman didn't react. Her gaze stayed on the sky—on the clouds drifting by, on the endless blue above. The noise inside the cabin slipped away, like wind against stone.
Back down in Vale—where the skies hadn't yet pulled people away— the streets were anything but still.
The commercial district buzzed with life. Carts creaked under the weight of dust crystals, spices, and handmade goods, while shopkeepers called out deals and children darted between stalls with sticky fingers and brighter smiles.
But as always, the docks were the loudest.
Fresh fish markets jammed the piers, where fishermen yelled over one another while slapping today's catch onto icy tables. The air smelled of salt, sweat, and scales. Nets were flung, crates dragged, and gossip passed with every exchange of lien.
"Fresh tuna! Still floppin'!"
"Crabs from the northern reef, get 'em cheap!"
"Two for one sardine deal, come on!"
Then, a cry rang out, slicing through the usual racket.
"Thief!"
A vendor toppled over a crate, flailing as he pointed frantically.
"Someone get that thief!"
Another shouted from a rooftop. "That goddamn cat is at it again!"
"She's venting!" someone yelled in disbelief, already breaking into a run.
From the crowd, a small blur streaked by—low to the ground, darting between crates and pedestrians. A tiny figure, no more than four feet tall, ran on all fours like an animal. And in her mouth? A comically large stack of fish, barely held together by their own slime.
"Mhmhmhmhmh!" came her muffled laugh, distorted through the pile of seafood. Her wild black hair whipped behind her as she zipped past gawking onlookers.
"Quick, get her!"
"She's going up the stalls!"
"That damn phantom cat!"
Footsteps thundered in pursuit. Guards, vendors, and one overly dramatic tourist all gave chase.
"Someone call the police!"
Two uniformed officers rounded the corner just in time to catch a glimpse of her tail vanishing behind a chimney.
"It's that damn cat again!"
One of them nearly tripped over a fish tail still flapping on the ground. "She took the good stuff too!"
Every shout had the same venom, the same exasperated tone. They all knew her. Not just a faunus. The faunus. The infamous fish thief of Vale's market scene.
She was small, fast, and unmistakably feline. Two twitching black ears poked from her messy hair, and her long, whip-like tail curled upward in excitement as she skittered up a drain pipe.
She paused briefly at the top of a tall building, squinting toward the edge.
A vent.
A wide, gleaming, metal vent.
Her golden eyes sparkled.
"Nyahaha—"
With a final burst of speed, she flung herself forward, diving straight into it headfirst.
"Nooo! She's getting away with all the fish!"
"Someone stop that cat!"
"Nyahahahaaaaa!" she echoed triumphantly from inside, the sound reverberating through the metal.
The merchants, fishermen, and police stood frozen, panting, their faces a perfect mix of disbelief and exhaustion.
A soft rattling of movement echoed through the vent system, getting fainter and fainter...
"DAMN THAT CAAAT!"
The narrow vent groaned softly as the small cat faunus crawled through, her limbs nimble and practiced, moving like she'd done this a thousand times before—which she had. Bits of dust clung to her hoodie, her tail swished behind her for balance, and the smell of market fish still lingered on her breath.
Eventually, with a soft clink, she popped out the end of the vent and landed with a padded thud on the slanted rooftop of a residential building.
She didn't stop.
With effortless agility, she dropped low again and took off on all fours, darting across shingles, leaping from one rooftop to the next with feline grace. Below, the more peaceful side of Vale stirred with morning calm—families leaving for work, street sweepers humming, birds chirping—but she was already racing away from it all.
Further and further she ran, toward the edge of the city.
There, just before the border with Vale's agricultural district, stood a large, weather-beaten structure. An old farmhouse, long abandoned. The paint peeled from its wooden walls, windows were cracked or boarded up, and vines wrapped around its rotting frame. But to one clever little troublemaker, it was home.
She landed on the porch with a clack of her boots, pushed open the crooked door with a tail-assisted nudge, and stepped inside.
"Nyahaha~ finally something to eat for the afternoon," she purred, dropping into a cat-like loaf on the floor. A trail of stolen fish still hung from her mouth as she gleefully devoured them, one after the other.
Munching with satisfaction, she purred again and rolled onto her back lazily, licking her fingers and tail idly twitching.
Once done, she rolled over, crawled toward a corner of the room, and flopped onto her makeshift bed: a pile of old blankets, pillows, and stuffed satchels. She fished out her scroll case—a black cat-themed case, worn and slightly scuffed from use—and pulled out her scroll. After flicking it on, she started watching random videos. Her golden eyes lazily scanned the screen while muffled voices played in the background.
Suddenly, her ears perked.
"...wait..." she blinked, then slowly turned her gaze toward the wall where a calendar had been duct-taped.
"Nya? Wait...!"
She shot upright.
Her pupils shrank.
"Oh shit, I'm late—nya!!"
She leapt off the bed, scattering pillows everywhere. Snatching her stitched-together leather bag, she grabbed whatever she could: scroll, a half-eaten granola bar, a few dusty lien, and a belt holding too many daggers.
Throwing her bag over one shoulder, she dropped onto all fours and exploded out of the farmhouse.
Dawn light streaked across tilled fields as she tore along the dirt track. Furrowed earth blurred beneath her paws, and low wooden fences became hurdles she vaulted without breaking stride. The scent of ripe wheat and fresh earth whipped past her whiskers.
The dirt gave way to gravel, crunching under her claws, then to cracked pavement where a distant hum rose into a steady roar. She kept her head low, ears flat, tail outstretched for balance, weaving around carts and park walls as the farmland slipped behind her.
At the top of a small rise, she paused for the briefest heartbeat. Below, Vale's transit station sprawled—a glass-and-steel beacon on the horizon, its platforms alive with movement. She blinked once, then launched herself forward, claws tapping across the stone plaza.
The wind howled through the station's steel bones, sweeping dust and wrappers across the pavement like fleeing vermin. The cat faunus skidded to a halt just shy of the glass doors, crouched low, panting. Her tail twitched.
The place was a jungle—buzzing with travelers, armed security, bored attendants, and a few Beacon hopefuls dragging luggage twice their size. Overhead, digital clocks blinked in bold red letters.
Late. She was absolutely, criminally, unmistakably late.
"Nyaha! I made it—!" she beamed, eyes glittering.
Then she saw it.
A poster taped near the guard station. Grainy image. Cat ears. Sharp grin.
Her face.
"...Oh." Her smile died. Ears flattened.
With a practiced calm, she slipped into a slow whistle and started strolling like she owned the place. A glimmer of light rippled down her body—her figure broadening, her tail disappearing, her jacket reshaping into a regulation uniform. A security officer now, square-jawed and grim.
"Morning," she said in a deeper, gravelly voice, giving a stiff nod.
"Morning," replied the real guard, who didn't even look up.
Past the checkpoint, she ducked behind a vending machine. The illusion fizzled off in a shimmer. She shook herself once, ears flicking back to life, then slid into the crowd like smoke between fingers.
Her eyes scanned the throng until they locked on a familiar figure behind the reception desk—an overworked staffer, eyes glued to a datapad.
A student at the counter glanced over. "Here's your ticket, ma'am."
"Thank you," the student mumbled.
The cat faunus was already past them both, tail swaying, barely brushing the floor. No one noticed.
Beyond the main building, the airfield stretched out like a concrete runway to the sky. Dozens of airships lined the bays—sleek Mantas gleaming under the sun, heavy passenger crafts rumbling at the loading docks.
And then, near the back, she spotted it: a dusty old Bullhead marked for cargo transport. No students. No staff. Just crates.
Perfect.
She broke into a sprint.
"Psst! Psst, pst!" she hissed as she ducked under one of the pallets near the hatch.
A boot scraped. Then a voice. "Huh?"
A tall, unshaven pilot stepped into view—and groaned.
"You again? Oh for fu—why are you even here?"
She popped out from behind a crate, hands clasped together like a desperate kitten.
"Come on! I'm in a rush! I'm late for Beacon enrollment—nya!"
He folded his arms. "Yeah, and last time you were here because you got arrested. Again."
She pouted, tail coiled tightly behind her. "All I did was grab a few fish! They were just lying there, free samples basically!"
He stared. "Uh-huh."
"Pleeeaaase—nyaaa?" she begged, giving him that wide-eyed, sparkly look of weaponized cuteness.
He groaned, rubbing his temples. "Fine. But it's 500 lien."
"500!?" she yelped, ears shooting up.
"You broke my rice cooker last time. Pay up or go board a bus like everyone else. See how far that gets you."
She groaned, digging through her satchel until she found a crumpled roll of lien notes. She slapped it into his hand like it physically hurt her to part with it.
"Fiiine—nya..."
He counted it quickly, then pointed toward the hatch. "Good. Now get in, you damn cat. And don't break anything this time."
She shot him a grin as she dashed aboard. "No promises."
With a low mechanical whirr, the Bullhead's engines sputtered to life. The hull vibrated as turbines spun up, rattling the old transport like an aging beast shaking off dust. Inside the cockpit, the pilot slouched back into his seat with a sigh, flicking switches and muttering curses about cats and rice cookers.
Landing clamps released with a clunk, and the Bullhead began its slow ascent, rising above the loading platform with a hollow whoomph as it pierced into the Valean skies.
It wasn't just hauling crates today.
It was also carrying a stowaway—a small, grinning cat faunus curled between stacks of supply bins, her tail flicking lazily as she snacked on the last scrap of dried fish.
Far across the sea, beyond the clouds and city towers, the sun rose over the mountains of Mistral.
At the edge of a busy terminal, a different kind of airship prepared for launch. Its wooden hull gleamed under the early light, silk clan banners snapping in the breeze. Passengers gathered near the ramp—some quiet, others chattering beneath the painted eaves of the station.
One figure stood apart.
She shifted her spear over one shoulder, the crimson ribbon tied near the blade catching the wind. Her combat qipao clung lightly to her frame, marked with pale floral stitching. Boots scuffed. Arm guards tight.
She stretched, arms raised until her joints popped, then dropped them with a tired sigh.
"Welp..." she muttered. "Time to head to Beacon."
Turning on her heel, she scanned the station around her. Other students, some younger, some older, bustled about. Some grinned wide through teary goodbyes. A few cried openly. Luggage thumped and scraped against stone. The air was thick with chatter and distant whistles of dock attendants.
Her gaze soon found two familiar figures nearby—her parents, both dressed in layered traditional robes, standing slightly apart from the crowd.
Her mother stepped forward first, eyes shining with a mixture of pride and concern. "Look at you," she said softly, brushing back a strand of the girl's hair. "All grown up... You're going to be the best of the best in the Xen clan."
Her father followed, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. His voice was firm, quiet, and full of conviction. "That's right. Show them. Show the world that the ancient arts passed down through generations still matter—even against their modern weapons and fancy tricks."
The girl exhaled and gave a lazy shrug. "Alright, alright," she replied with a tilted smirk. "I'll make sure to do that."
Her mother folded her arms, brow furrowing. "And don't forget to study. Study a lot."
The girl groaned, tipping her head back in mock despair. "Every time, seriously..."
"What?" her mother asked, hand on her hip. "You think they'll hand out diplomas just for slashing Grimm in half?"
"I mean..." she squinted, "that's kind of the whole point, isn't it?"
"That's my girl," her father chuckled.
Her mother sighed and gently shook her head, the fondness in her expression never wavering. "Listen, dear... for the sake of our clan's legacy, you must remember—Beacon is not just a battleground. It's your stage. Make them see us again. Bring honor to what's been fading."
The girl hesitated for a moment, then nodded, voice quieter now. "Yes, Mother..."
Her father smiled warmly. "Do your best... my dancer."
She turned, grabbing the handle of her modest luggage. With her spear slung behind her back and her clan's hopes pressing silently against her spine, she took a final glance at them.
"I will. I will," she said with a confident grin. "Come on—when have I ever disappointed you two?"
Her mother raised a brow. "Since every exam."
She paused mid-step. "Okay... fair."
The engines rumbled to life behind her. She didn't look back again.
With a sharp silhouette framed against the morning light, she stepped onto the ramp. Her boots met metal, and in moments, she disappeared into the vessel's hull. The airship doors closed, carrying her—and her clan's quiet hopes—toward Beacon.
The skies moved.
Not far from where clouds thinned into cold blue, high above sea and mountain, the gleam of polished steel signaled another departure.
Atlas.
Hovering over its upper terrace, two sleek Manta-class ships waited beside a sprawling estate—less a home and more a palace of marble paths and crystal balconies. Sunlight bounced from the stained glass, catching the movements of uniformed staff as they wove through sculpted gardens with machine-like precision.
At the center of it all, a tall blonde woman strode forward, flanked by attendants like a royal entourage. Every detail of her appearance was immaculate: navy coat tailored to perfection, gloves creaseless, hair pinned flawlessly. One scroll hovered in each hand, and her voice held a sharp elegance that cut through the brisk morning air.
"Yes, the wine shipment is already en route," she said evenly, eyes flicking across a scrolling list. "Make sure the crates are properly labeled this time—presentation matters."
A butler swiftly exchanged one scroll for another.
"No, we don't sell them," she added with a soft sigh, "we craft them. Synthetic fermentation is a disgrace to the label. Send them a bottle of Midnight Bloom and a reminder of our standards."
Not far behind, a shorter, white-haired woman stood tapping her foot, arms crossed and eyes narrowed in quiet exasperation. The scar over one eye twitched slightly. Her uniform was pressed to perfection—efficient and understated, with just a hint of military styling. She had been standing there for several minutes.
"How are you still not done?" she asked, voice flat with disbelief.
The blonde didn't even look up, only raised a finger as if to say wait.
"Hush, hush," she finally replied, her voice a smooth, melodic purr. She offered a smile that was both amused and entirely too practiced. "My dear, most trusted friend, Weiss—money never sleeps, and business never waits. The shipments must flow, the contracts must sign, and the wine must breathe."
Behind her, no less than twelve suitcases, trunks, and satchels were being loaded into her personal Manta—each case polished, monogrammed, and handled with velvet gloves.
"I can't just leave them uninformed," she added, frowning at one of the maids who hadn't fluffed her scarf quite right. "They'll panic without me."
"We are supposed to be heading to Beacon," the white-haired girl replied, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Why am I even still friends with you?"
"Because I bring spice to your life, darling." She winked. "Besides, if you didn't have those dreadful SDC meetings, you'd be even more bored than usual."
"I canceled those meetings," the white-haired girl snapped. "Because this moment—enrolling at Beacon—actually matters."
"Aw, how noble," the blonde chimed with mock sweetness. "But really, someone should be grateful that I'm even squeezing this in between my photoshoots and vineyard expansions."
The white-haired girl rolled her eyes so hard it nearly echoed. She turned to leave, muttering, "This wine tycoon is going to be the death of me."
Just as she reached her own Manta, she turned sharply on her heel and pointed a commanding finger at the blonde.
"And stop taking calls. You can schedule them."
"Just one more! One second!" the blonde pleaded as a butler handed her yet another scroll. She answered it with a practiced smile. "Hello, yes, I'd love to do the shoot for next season's vintage... But, um, when exactly? I'm currently enrolling in a—"
"Oh for all the kingdoms..." The white-haired girl groaned, stormed back across the platform, and grabbed her friend by the wrist.
With no warning, she dragged the blonde toward the awaiting Manta. Makeup artists yelped, a hat went flying, and several maids gasped.
"Just get in there!"
"Ah! My makeup!" the blonde cried, half-tumbling inside.
"Do it in flight! Honestly—what don't you multitask?" She turned to her pilot as she boarded her own Manta. "Just go. And tell the other pilot to lift off now before she starts a whole wine summit midair."
The pilot gave a stiff nod. "Roger that, Miss Schnee."
With a synchronized hum, both ships began to rise, slipping into the skies of Atlas—one smooth, efficient, and quiet; the other... still ringing with the sound of a last-minute business call and the clinking of glass.
Four girls.
One, towering and silent, bearing the weight of steel and duty on her shoulders. Stoic, impenetrable—yet beneath that armor, something simmered. Something human. Something maybe even... wounded?
Another, dressed in elegance and legacy. A mind sharper than her arrows, a name heavier than her musket. Her world was business, strategy, influence. Did she wield weapons for war—or merely for prestige?
Then, the heir of a martial tradition, swift as wind, eyes like blades. Bound by expectation, discipline, honor. But will she walk her own path—or the one carved out by family hands?
And finally, a tiny thief with golden eyes and nine lives' worth of mischief. Known by market vendors, wanted by local guards, and remembered by every shopkeeper missing a fish. A stowaway, a wildcard. Perhaps the least likely among them—but the story doesn't care for likeliness.
They all came to Beacon.
Some by transport. Some by invitation. One by smuggling herself in under crates.
But they came.
And the story?
It waits for no one.
It will unfold slowly—one clashing step, one choice, one mistake, one triumph at a time.
Beacon awaits.
And so, the curtain begins to rise.